A Close Relationship with Carpet Fibres
by Menthol Pixie
Summary: Sam wakes up on the floor. Epilepsy 'verse.
1. Chapter 1

**A Close Relationship with Carpet Fibres**

Summary: Sam wakes up on the floor. Epilepsy 'verse.

A/N: This is kind of different from what I usually write because I'm going to leave it In Progress and add to it when I get ideas. I have a few installments already mostly finished so those will be posted fairly quickly, after that we'll just have to see what my muse does. These are basically snapshots of life right after seizures.

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12

Sam wakes up on the floor.

For an eternity, nothing makes sense, all context stripped from the world. He can't remember where he is, why he aches so much, or why he's lying on his side getting closely acquainted with rough beige carpet fibres. It smells like cigarette ash and dust, which makes him want to sneeze, which feels like a terrible idea right now.

"Here he comes," says a voice over his head.

'Here who comes?' Sam wonders, and then the voice is matched to a face as his eyes manage to move away from the scruffy carpet and everything tumbles into place the moment he recognises Dean.

He senses Dad behind him but his big brother fills his line of sight. Dean is lying on his side, head propped up on an arm bent at the elbow, fingers spread between strands of short dark blond hair. They're on the floor of a motel room. Of course.

"Thirty seconds exactly," Dean announces. "Not bad, kiddo."

Sam scrunches up his face to show his displeasure at the childish nickname, not ready to try to form words. It's not like Dean's _that_ much older than him, and anyway, twelve years and eight months makes Sam practically a teenager.

Dean laughs a little and reads Sam's mind in the way only Dean can. "Sorry," he says, sounding anything but. "Do you prefer brat?"

Sam hopes he's scowling. It's a little hard to tell in the afterglow of a big seizure but he thinks he manages it because Dean's face breaks into a grin and he reaches out the hand not supporting his head to ruffle Sam's hair a little, gentle, teasing and comforting all at once. "Okay, okay, I know you prefer princess."

The lights in the room still don't look quite right, fractal-ling in odd directions, but it's getting easier to focus now and his limbs have started to remember that they're attached to him, which always helps him feel a little less out there. He attempts a word.

"Jerk." It comes out only slightly slurred. Good enough. Dean understands and pretends to be mortally wounded by the jibe, flopping back on the floor theatrically with a hand pressed over his heart.

"Stop teasing your brother," Dad's deep voice rumbles, just out of Sam's field of vision, like he doesn't understand how much Dean's antics help

"Sorry, Sammy," Dean says, once again completely unconvincingly. His eyes are still sparkling cheekily and he's grinning, not even bothering to try faking contrition, and Sam is grateful for his brother's rare disobedience because he needs this. It doesn't matter that he's done this hundreds of times before because every time is like the first time and waking up with a head full of nothing is scary. He needs Dean to be an idiot and act like everything is normal so he can remember that this _is_ normal for him. He thinks his seizures scare Dean sometimes as well, even though his brother never says so out loud, and somehow this seems to help them both.

"Bed or couch, Sam?" Dad asks, sooner than Sam would prefer. He sees Dean frown disapprovingly at their father over his head. He wants to say _floor_ because moving seems impossibly hard even though he knows he'll barely have to do anything other than let his family manhandle him.

"Bed," he decides, and he was right, the sudden movement as Dad lifts him up into his arms makes him dizzy in a ground-dropping-out-from-under-him kind of way but he doesn't need to cling. It's not as if Dad's going to drop him.


	2. Chapter 2

**A Close Relationship with Carpet Fibres**

Summary: Sam wakes up on the floor.

XXX

16

Sam wakes up on the floor.

In a moment, he'll remember the argument and realise that he's supposed to be mad at his brother and father but for now he turns blindly towards the hand carding through his hair, the soft voice that murmurs "hey, kiddo" in a way that somehow lets him know he's safe before he knows anything else.

His head pounds and there's a confusing glare of jumbled after-images behind his eyelids, as if he's been staring at things under a bright light and now the shapes are imprinted on his retinas. None of the shadowy figures make sense, nothing does, apart from the smell of gun oil and peanut M&Ms. _Dean_ , his mushy brain supplies sleepily. Dean called him 'kiddo', that means he had a fit. Dad's aftershave filters through the haze next and that triggers the memories of the fight. He's probably lost a chunk off the end - he usually does if the fit is big enough and seeing as he currently feels like he's been hit by a truck, he's guessing this one was pretty bad – but he remembers what it was about; the hunt. The straight-forward, low risk, barely more than reconnaissance kind of hunt that Sam could totally handle if Dad would stop being so unfair and let him come.

Sam lies still for a moment, the rough grain of the carpet pressing against his cheek, breathing in the dingy, familiar smell of dust and ash, and wishes that he didn't have to remember that he's Sam Winchester and he's lying on the floor because his own brain hates him so much that it just sabotaged his chances of convincing Dad that he's up for field action by demonstrating exactly why Dad has never, and probably will never, take him on a hunt.

It's not fair. The first full on grand mal he's had in almost _three months_ and it had to be now, right in the middle of building his case to Dad. To make everything worse, just because epilepsy fucking sucks and loves to make his life hell, the growing dampness in his jeans lets him know that he's pissed himself. Fucking _great_.

"You back with us, Sammy?"

Sam really wishes he wasn't. He feels like shit and he's mad at Dad for being right about there still being a seizure risk even though his meds have been working (up until now) and he's mad at himself for leaning into Dean's touch so readily when he's mad at his brother, too. Dean may let him drive the car when they're in the middle of nowhere but he's just as reluctant as Dad is to let Sam help them hunt monsters. Even this stupid ghost that hasn't even killed anybody.

He's in the recovery position (of course. It feels like he spends half his life in this position) and it's a struggle to open his eyes, let alone get his arms underneath him enough to push himself up but he does it and he does it without Dad or Dean's help, shrugging off their attempts, even though he feels like collapsing all over again and it makes Dad growl in frustration. Dean says nothing but when Sam sneaks a look at him, he seems hurt, his face twisted with emotions Sam's too tired to figure out.

"This is exactly what I was talking about," Dad mutters, just in case Sam's dumb enough to think he can continue the argument.

"You never let me do _anything_." The words are out before Sam has a chance to think. Apparently he _is_ dumb enough, or maybe he's just too tired to filter his thoughts while he's swaying from the effort of just staying upright, or too angry about being wrapped in cotton wool and tucked away for later use, trapped by Dad's useless promises of mythical cures.

He's so _over_ it. Maybe he could handle things better if Dad would let him join a soccer team or debate club or _something_ but no, Dad says there's no time for that, he needs to study his Latin or work on self-defence or clean the guns even though there's no damn point because it's not like he's ever going to get close enough to a monster to use any of that stuff.

"After I find a cure-" Dad starts, right on cue, and Sam is suddenly and completely sick of hearing it.

"There is no cure!" His own voice makes his head pound but his declaration stops Dad in his tracks so it's worth it. He doesn't look at either of his hovering family members as he stumbles towards the bathroom, half blinded by post-seizure exhaustion. "If there was, we would have found it by now. This is as good as it gets."

And that's only so long as the medication keeps working so well. Three months without a grand mal is probably a record for him but, knowing his luck, he's probably starting to build up a tolerance and that's why he's currently clutching the bathroom door frame for support as his head spins and his legs threaten to give out beneath him, ruining his plans for a quick door-slamming exit.

"Sammy?" Dean appears at his side, arms reaching out to steady him. It's so Dean. He always wants to help, always wants to keep Sam safe, but Sam's sick of always being looked after. Stubbornly, he pushes off the door frame without help and steps into the bathroom, refusing to look at Dean before he shuts the door in his face.


	3. Chapter 3

**A Close Relationship with Carpet Fibres**

Summary: Sam wakes up on the floor.

A/N: Sorry this took so long! I got distracted with school holidays and apparently needed some time to get back into the writing groove. :P

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18

Sam wakes up on the floor.

It's quiet and still and something's missing but he doesn't know what because everything is missing, everything is exploding stars behind his eyelids and cloying fog and pain, everything hurts and there are no hands in his hair and no voice calling him kiddo...

 _Oh_.

Sam opens his eyes. The dorm room carpet is dark grey and smells faintly of beer and pot, and he must have bitten his tongue because his mouth tastes of blood. It all mixes together in a nauseating kind of way and Sam slams his eyes closed.

 _This is what you wanted_ , he reminds himself as he breathes through the worst of it.

His room mate is out. Sam's not sure if he's relieved or disappointed. He got the impression that the guy wasn't too happy about being roomed with someone who comes with a list of instructions and he isn't sure how much help his room mate would actually be but waking up alone is eerier than he thought it would be. His brain's still not fully online and he feels adrift without someone to centre him. And, Sam notes dismally as he cautiously squints his eyes open again, his bed seems like it's a long way away.

 _You knew_ , he tells himself forcefully, _when you left, you knew you'd have to deal with this alone_.

It was the right decision. He had to move on instead of waiting around for a cure that wasn't coming. He had to stop holding his family back from helping people and maybe, if he becomes a lawyer, he can help people too. He doesn't regret his choice. Still, he stays pressed against the dark grey carpet and misses Dean with a ferocity that takes his breath away. He's never been alone like this before. His head is thumping. He must have landed on his knee because a sharp pain is starting to register through the dull ache that consumes his limbs, and if he wants ice for it he's going to have to get it himself, and it all just feels like too much right now; getting up, getting ice, getting to bed. It's too hard.

It's a long time before he feels like attempting movement and even then, it's the trilling of his cellphone in his pocket that spurs him on, a wave of relief washing away his lethargy. It's Dean's ring tone. Somehow, it's Dean.

Sam fumbles his phone from his pocket and jabs at the answer button with fingers that don't quite feel connected to him, tucking the phone between his ear and the floor when holding it seems like too much effort.

"Hey, Dean." His bitten tongue has swelled and the words come out thick and a little slurred. He swears he can _feel_ his brother's concern sky-rocket through the phone lines the second he speaks.

"Sammy?"

Sam feels stupidly like crying just because it's so good to hear Dean's voice right now but he doesn't because Dean would either freak or mock him relentlessly. Probably both in that order.

"I had a fit," he says, focusing on getting the words out clearly.

"Yeah?" There's Dean's seizure voice, soft and concerned and reassuring all at the same time. "You okay, kiddo?"

Despite his aching limbs and sore knee, bitten tongue and cloudy head, Sam finds himself smiling. "Yeah, Dean. I'm fine."


	4. Chapter 4

**A Close Relationship with Carpet Fibres**

Summary: Sam wakes up on the floor. Epilepsy 'verse.

XXX

Sam wakes up on the floor.

It takes a while to figure out where he is – it's not a floor, it's sand, soft and warm from the last rays of the sun – and even longer to figure out who the pretty blonde girl sitting on the beach beside him is. Then he feels bad for forgetting Jess, even though he knows that that's ridiculous – it's not his fault and it was only for a moment – and after that everything comes flooding back until he's aware enough to realise how embarrassing this is. He concentrates for a moment and is relieved to figure out that he hasn't pissed himself, at least. Still, as second dates go, he bets Jess has had better.

"Hi?" she says, a small anxious smile on her face as she looks down at him. She's scared, Sam can tell, but she's trying to pretend she's not. He did warn her that this would happen sooner or later, after she asked about the medical bracelet forever chained around his wrist, but he was hoping it would be later. She probably was, too. She's probably going to freak now that she's seen how bad it can be and find an excuse to cancel the third date Sam's pretty sure he remembers them talking about, just like that other girl did after he had a string of complex partials during their coffee date.

"Hi," Sam replies, when he's fairly sure that he can do it without slurring. "Are you okay?"

Jess is close enough that Sam can smell her perfume with his awakening senses and her blonde hair tumbles over her shoulder in waves. She's so pretty. And smart and funny. Everything was going so _well_. "I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to ask you that," she says.

Sam manages to quirk a smile. He hopes it's reassuring. "Nah, I've done this hundreds of times. I'm a pro at seizures. You're the amateur here."

The joke seems to drain some of the tension from Jess's shoulders and Sam decides that this would be a good time to sit up if he doesn't want her getting more worried. It's not easy but he manages to push himself upright. He's pleasantly surprised when Jess's gently hands reach out to help. Her fingers graze the side of his face as she brushes sand from his hair and he feels a rush of light-headedness that has nothing to do with the seizure and everything to do with how beautiful she is.

"It was pretty scary," Jess admits. "I've never seen someone have a seizure before. It was... more sudden that I was expecting."

"They're not all like that. Sometimes I can tell when one's about it hit. Just... not always." He wants her to know that it's not always like this, that being with him isn't all tonic-clonic seizures all the time, but 'sometimes' doesn't sound so impressive right now and his head is still too jumbled to explain properly. He ducks behind his hair and tries to figure out something, anything to say that will stop this girl from disappearing, wishing Dean was here to take over for him while he gets his head on straight.

"It's okay, Sam," Jess says, like she can read his mind. "I knew this was part of the deal. So what do we need to do now?"

Her hand is warm on his denim-clad knee "Um... sleep," Sam admits. "Sorry, I just..."

"It's fine." Jess brushes aside his apology. She smiles at him a little slyly and says, "You know, I don't usually take guys home on the second date but my place is closer than yours. Come to mine?"

Sam thinks he might be falling in love.


End file.
